“It’s like the rain’s already dirty when it comes down on this side of town. The dust don’t settle, there’s no fresh smell. The windows on the buses and the bars just streak yellow-brown, covered as they is in the gritty filth of the city. Nothing here gets washed. That’s why nothing bad ever washes away, and nothing ever, ever comes to be made new.”
Come back Monday, June 1, for the release of Issue 1.2, where you’ll find the rest of this poem and lots more.
